


half-half

by decidingdolan



Series: one more bite [1]
Category: 13 Reasons Why (TV), Thirteen Reasons Why - Jay Asher
Genre: Clay's POV, Clay-Hannah alone time, F/M, Introspection, Second Person, bit of sweet-tinged melancholy for the soul, it's a Clay Hannah thing, non-linear timeline, waffles and midnight snacking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 08:19:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10850082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: A bench. A freshly baked marshmallow surprise belgian waffle. Clay Jensen reflects on the girl who introduced him to the dessert in the first place.





	half-half

 

 

 

 

> _“Anyway, my dearest one,_
> 
> _  
> we still have the moon.”_
> 
>  
> 
> **\- Margaret Atwood, the last lines of _Owl and Pussycat, Some Years Later_ from _The Door_**

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

Sometimes it just happens.

 

You and her, sitting on a bench. Freezing cold night in April, and a paper plate of freshly baked takeaway Marshmallow Surprise Belgian Waffle in your hand.

 

The waffle’s drizzled with melted white chocolate, already hardened across the cracks, grounds for the pink and white mini-marshmallows topping. A particularly nasty thumb-sized white chunk lay next to the piece, but you doubted you (or her) would numb yourself with the sweetness.

 

It was 10pm, Saturday. Curfew’s come and gone, but so were your straying thoughts about her.

 

“I know a good waffle place,” she said. You offered to pay (Was it a date?), and you’re sitting next to her outside the town’s lone mall, the sickly saccharine smell filling your senses.

 

You ran into her on your way back from meeting Jeff. She’s walking home, and you’d promised her your company for the night (not a date. Definitely not a date).

 

Clay Jensen. Adorable Clay Jensen. Nice Guy Clay Jensen. You’re only filling in her boxes.

 

Nothing else.

 

“You come here a lot?” you asked, palm brushing that familiar non-existent dirt off your knee. She grinned, the streetlights turned vivid, and your mouth ran dry.

 

She pressed a finger to her lips. “Shh,” she mock-whispered, in that carefree way of hers, the way she often was around you, _being_ the her you still missed, “Shouldn’t go saying it aloud now that you know!”

 

And you laughed. You had to.

 

(Of course you would.)

 

“Hey,” you said, soft, careful, the word disproportionately heavy with the emphasis you placed on the rare moment between you two (and to think it was a late snack time – but this would have to do). “You know me.”

 

A hand on your heart. It’s you, after all. Seriousness about serious matters. “I could never.”

 

She elbowed you, sly glint in her eyes. “Oh really,” she said, dulcet voice curved round the words, and you wished you had recorded her tone just then, just before her world (your world, Liberty High’s world?) turned to shit.

 

Before.

 

“Really,” you nodded, fork slicing yourself your first piece.

 

She waited, watched you finish. And you’re staring back at her, wide eyes, cheeks puffed out.

 

“It’s good. Super sweet, though.”

She crossed her arms at her chest, tilted her head. “Told you so,” she said, too adorably smug. (and pretty. Don’t ever forget that. She was always, to you.), “I aim to please.”

 

You’re sitting at the same bench now, the same waffle on your lap. No same girl at your side.

 

Her voice rang in your ears, and you’re eating alone even then.

 

“You sure you don’t want any?” you raised a fork, the waffle halfway demolished, few marshmallows outlining the plate. She shook her head.

 

“It’s good. I promise, _so good_ ,” you raised the plate to her eye level, hoping the odor would persuade her to the Sugary Dark Side. She turned your plate down (literally).

 

“I’m full, Helmet,” she replied, by way of reasoning, and you smiled. You loved the nickname. Had been in love with it. Maybe even more than your own name. Maybe it was the way she said it. Maybe it was the way the sound lingered. How her lips formed the syllables. How you were a special enough presence in her circle to merit a distinguished title.

 

(Okay, slow down there, Jensen. Getting way ahead of yourself.)

 

You mock-frowned, taking another slice into your mouth. One-fourth of a waffle left.

 

“So am I, Baker,” you said, half-pleading. “Got to help me here.”

 

She raised an eyebrow, picked up her fork. You watched her, hoped, and failed. Hannah chose one lone tiny marshmallow and you’re left with the now gigantic waffle piece.

 

Without her, and in the sun, finishing the waffle was an easy feat. You’re forking your way through, and one-fourth of a waffle was staring up at you after a couple of minutes.

 

With Hannah, it was a pointless exercise in negotiation.

 

(Because you were going to let her win anyhow.)

 

“C’mon,” you started, “A half for you, half for me. Deal?” Your fork’s hovering above the waffle, your eyes locked on her face.

 

And how could you refuse those eyes?

 

She bit her lip, pretended to think when you already knew her reply.

 

“Nah,” she said, “You can do it.” She squeezed your shoulder. Shivers, and you thought yourself lucky not to let it show.

 

“Go on,” she continued, “We’ve got the time.”

 

Ironic.

 

If you could say the same for her.

 

The present-day waffle came down to two slices. You took one in, told yourself not to search the empty space for your one-man, timed waffle-eating contest cheerleader who was no longer there.

 

(But she was more. She was the reason. She was A Reason. She brought up a waffle place. You went to the waffle place. You bought a waffle. You tried the waffle. You wanted her to know you listened. You wanted her to know you’d carve out a space of time, of a spot on a bench on a cold night to connect with her.

 

You wanted her to know you’d grab a last-minute, late night act to be with her.

 

Because this was coincidence, running into her. And you weren’t going to misuse your luck.)

 

So you both waited. You took minutes, chewing. She’s there, waiting, and the sweetness burning your tongue’s almost forgotten somehow.

 

“It’s good,” you’re speaking to the air, raising an empty plate to the sweet-toothed girl who would not answer, “It’s still good.”

 

_And I wish you were still here._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for stopping by, reading, and reviewing!
> 
> x.
> 
> Your ever humble fanfic writer.


End file.
